


The Picture Kept (Will Remind Me)

by dareduo (excessnight)



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gods!AU, M/M, Multi, soulmate!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4664274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excessnight/pseuds/dareduo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Camulos, god of war and sky, never believed in love. Bloodshed, war, violence - that, he believed in. But soulmates? A completely different story.</p>
<p>In the mortal world, soulmates are real and they are marked by fingerprints. As the saying goes, no two fingerprints are alike, and wherever the person first touches - granted that they're soulmates - will be where their mark is. Foggy Nelson has not one mark, but two. He's also got the mark of the gods, a huge ram's skull on his back with a broadsword through the skull. He has no idea which god he's soulmated to, but he'll do anything to find out.</p>
<p>And Camulos will do everything in his power to make sure it's not him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Camulos - Matt Murdock  
> Erebus - James Wesley

The Great Hall was quiet, as it normally was nowadays. Most of it's residents were too busy with other matters to rejoice and celebrate like kings and queens; the most elite of the elite. There was a ghost of a whisper in the halls, but nothing more. A figure, coming from somewhere else - another land, another time - stepped from the shadows.

The male wore ancient armor, dented and red and old. And a large ram's skull, which sat upon his head like a headdress, masking most of his face in shadows. Blood dripped from the horns to the marble floor as the male walked the length of the hallway, a broadsword swinging gently at his side. He held his head high, blinking white sightless eyes and turning his head in several directions as he listened for the one who was following him.

"I suggest that you reveal yourself. Hiding never does the enemy much good," he said as he stopped walking, looking around with his other senses. It was always hard to tell gods apart, they all smelled differently and never quite the same. He smelt darkness, cold and sharp, which left little to who it might be.

"My, my, Camulos," the voice said as it emerged from the shadows themselves, allowing the slight shift in air and allowing Camulos the chance to sense who it was. "Aren't the days of war and bloodshed over? And must you _really_ trail blood on the floor? Tsk, tsk. I thought we were grownups who were past the whole trailing mud into the house." Camulos turned his body slowly, listening as the droplets of blood fell to the floor and he gave Erebus a slow, menacing smile. His sightless eyes still bothered many, but it was the price to pay.

_"If I am to be a war god, give me one thing of beauty," he had begged the Fates. He could live with being a god of war, but without some joy? He would lose it._

_"We will grant you realm over the sky," one of the Crones said in that raspy tone. "At the price of your sight," she hissed. The blue, endless sky. Where one could view the stars and the sunset all at once. That was home to the galaxy, the universe. Home to Earth. Camulos had nodded. Anything for beauty._

_"Yes, yes of course," he had said eagerly. He loved the blue of the sky, and it would be his, but he would never see it again, for as long as he existed._

_"Then by us, we requellish your sight and grant you domain over the sky," and with those spoken words, the god of war's hazel eyes grew blind and white, completely sightless, immediately. And he became Camulos, god of the sky and war._

"Does that bother you, Erebus?" Camulos mused softly as he lifted his head to meet the other's attention. "Everywhere you go it reeks with your stench. Little hypocritical of you, to be fair," he gave a small smirk.

"Ah. Now, now. No need to be jealous," Erebus said and the god of war could hear the other move forward. “Just, give up your title,” he said in that calm voice. It reeked of shadows and darkness and made Camulos’ nose itch. It was the voice that suggested he was making a deal. He’d made his point hundreds of times before. 

_“God of war and the sky? Hm, such a hefty sum to handle. Beauty and destruction. See, now me. Ha, me, I’d take great care of the sky. Which, hey, you might want to consider that. How can an ugly god like you, ever appreciate it? How can you care for it, if you gave up your sight for it?”_

His taunts were always harsh, but they were just taunts. Never threats. Never motives.

“Abandon my title of god of the sky to you?” Camulos said with a forced laugh. “Why? What good would that do?” as the words left his mouth though, he knew exactly what that would do. Erebus chuckled, filling the room with a ghost of laughter as he once again merged with the shadows and despite how unafraid he was, Camulos couldn’t repress a shiver that crawled down his spine at the combination.

“You’ll come to regret it, you know,” Erebus said as his voice seemed to swirl around the Celtic warrior, who in turn refused to chase the sightless voice. “We’re becoming very tired of waiting for you. We might take action. We might - you may say - start a war,” Erebus chuckled humorlessly at his own joke and Camulos had to remain from scoffing at the mere idea of it. But he also knew, one didn’t mess with a primordial deity. He wasn’t the only one, but he was powerful. Sometimes, more powerful than Camulos wanted to admit.

“What if I refuse,” he said as he held his ground, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword, a dark ruby sitting in the center.

“You won’t refuse. There will be no room for you to refuse,” and in a moment, before he had a chance to _focus_ and find out where the god would be next, Erebus was right at his side, whispering in his ear, “Fate has decided to recently pay you a visit with something you cannot escape.” And then he was gone. His fading chuckle following Camulos all throughout the Hall as he headed back to his chambers. Head held high, blood dripping off his skull, and mentally preparing for war. And the smirk that pulled against his lips could only be described as devilish. War, he was ready for it.


	2. Chapter One

Foggy’s first Mark came in when he was sixteen.

He’d always thought (hoped) that it would be his only Mark, and that he’d get the kind of life movies advertized and his parents epitomized: one soulmate who he loved dearly and loved him dearly back, and a life nice and quiet somewhere (location didn’t matter to him, only the love did.)

The fingerprints weren’t especially large, but the hand they belonged to must have been because it wrapped around his shoulder: a thumbprint just above his collarbone, and the other four in a line down the curve of his shoulder. It was unlikely, he knew by then, that his soulmate had wasn’t the manic pixie girl of his dreams, and it didn’t really bother him. He already knew, by then, that he wasn’t the straightest line on paper, and as long as the love was true he couldn’t care less who it was with; male, female, or otherwise.

He went the next several years jumping every time a teacher or a friend or a colleague clapped him on the shoulder, trying subtly to brush against them to see if this was The One-- it never was, obviously, and it lead to more than a few awkward situation and weird crushes (Brett _never_ let him live down the month he spent fretting over the elderly janitor at their high school), but all of this didn’t make him any more sure of what he’d believed his whole life: he’d find whoever it was someday, and it would be great.

“So,” Foggy said, skipping a greeting himself. He’d gone back to staring at the Mark across his back in the mirror. “I already know the answer to this, but we didn’t happen to go out and get wicked drunk last night, right? No _Hangover_ reenactments?”

“What the _hell_ are you talking about?” Brett huffed. “I don’t even think we talked last night, did we?”

“Absolutely not," Foggy said, frowning. “But I thought I’d hope for the slightly better outcome here.”

“Outcome of what?” Foggy could hear a coffee machine spluttering in the background, so Brett was at least verging on Frankenstein's monster rather than the walking dead in his awakeness. That was good, at least; one of them should be awake for this.

“So, I either got a wicked tattoo and forgot about it,” he said, finally turning back around and running a hand through his hair. The Mark hadn’t disappeared, so it probably wasn’t a dream or a prank. “Or, I’m about to become a modern myth.”

“It’s too early for guessing games, man,” Brett sighed, but he didn’t sound as annoyed. The coffee had probably finished brewing. “What did you do, discover the cure for cancer and write it on your arm?”

"Not that kind of myth,” Foggy said. “Though, that’d be a) weird because I have, like, no medical background, and b) really cool and a lot less scary. I’m talking about the kind of myth that ends with me being smited or turned into a flower.”

“Like, a Greek myth or something?” Brett sounded confused now, but he seemed to catch on after a beat, because his voice went from a normal volume to a low hiss. “Franklin Nelson, _what the literal hell_?”

“It’s just _here_ now, man. And, also, this situation does not call for the use of that name. Franklin situations are a lot more dire and my fault, and this? Not my fault,” Foggy sat down on the edge of the bed, flopping backwards after a moment, “and it’s weird, too. Like, scary-ish and vague? A lot of deities use swords, right? And skulls, that could mean, like, a death god? Or a war god. Or just a _ram_ god, Brett, what if I’m supposed to get with the god of angry dead rams?”

“There is no god of angry dead rams,” Brett said, though he didn’t sound so sure. “Just-- Jesus _Christ_ , I thought these things didn’t happen anymore.”

“Always here to exceed expectations,” Foggy mumbled, staring up at the ceiling.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Foggy.” At least now, Brett sounded apologetic. First mug was finished, then; coffee always made him gentler for a time. “Just-- take the day off work, do some Googling, you’ll figure it out. Whoever they are, they can’t be so bad, right?”

“Except the part where most gods are _absolute dicks_ ,” Foggy said. “You’ve read the stories, dude; most of their significant others are found through kidnapping or stalking or beastiality. I’m not going to be fated to a goat, Brett, I’m drawing the line.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Brett repeated. “Now stop talking to me and _figure_ , call back when you have a list. Maybe he’s just a shepherd, like you said. Shepherd can’t be especially evil.”

“I’m not kissing a goat," was the last thing Foggy said before hanging up. He laid on the bed for a few more minutes before sitting up and sighing. “Right,” he said to no one in particular - maybe to the Fates, or to his mysterious new god friend. “Alright, let’s see what I’m working with.”

* * *

 

After a few hours of poking around on New Age sites and Wikipedia, Foggy had a list of names, and few of them were encouraging. He called Brett back around noon, when he knew he’d be on break. 

“Alright,” he started without preamble. “Good news: there’s very few shepherd gods who have swords as symbols, thankfully, so I probably won’t have to kiss a goat.”

“Bad news?” Brett replied, not missing a beat.

“The rest of the list is mostly comprised of death gods and war gods, none with happy pasts,” Foggy flipped through his notes again. He’d made a considerable amount, his interest and only mostly superficial fear about potential kidnapping or beastiality driving him deeper into old myth than he’d ever given thought to before. “Ares is a good candidate, but his symbol’s the boar and not the ram, or Inanna, and who is somehow even scarier than him, and then we’ve got Khnum - who’s pretty cool but, like _the oldest thing ever_ , so super age gap, who’s supposed to have the head of a ram, but the sword doesn’t fit there either, and then we’ve got-” he squinted at the list. “Camulos, who fits the symbols, but is scary as hell. Like, god of war, super bloody past, also god of the sky which I guess is cool? But, still. Scary. My options aren’t looking good here, man.”

“To be fair, unless you got like, a kitten on your forehead, you were screwed anyway," Brett pointed out, and Foggy made a noise.

“Oh, dude, no. Cat goddesses are _terrifying_. Like, Bast? Would probably eat me. Every single god, basically, would kill me in a heartbeat in some scenario - even with the Mark, honestly; like, think of all the girls Marked by Zeus that Hera killed, and all the gods that killed their own soulmates either because of some prophecy or because they were afraid of them being used against them or because of _sacrifices_ , Brett. I could be sacrificed.”

“You’re not going to be sacrificed, Foggy, it’s the twenty first century,” Brett sighed. “I get what you’re saying, though. Just… maybe they won’t even find out about you. Maybe you’ll just meet that other guy, the shoulder guy, and the god won’t even bother you.” God Marks were always separate from regular Marks, since gods didn’t really have fingerprints, so the person who would touch Foggy’s shoulder was entirely different than the god he’d only learned of this morning.

“Maybe,” Foggy echoed, though he wasn’t sure that was what he wanted; he was kind of scared of what the Mark meant, but if he was fated to them, they couldn’t be too awful, could they? Maybe the gods had mellowed out in the centuries they’d had to do so. “Only time will tell, I guess.”

“That’s the spirit,” Brett said, though it really wasn’t. “I’m going to hang up on you now, and let you… ruminate, or whatever. Pray to the gods for a choir of cherubs to come down and bestow upon you the phone number of your immortal future spouse. Later, Nelson.”

“You’re a shitty friend, Mahoney,” Foggy grumbled. “Later. Tell your mom I said hi-- and not about this!”

“She’d have a heart attack laughing; I won’t risk it.” And with that, he was gone, and Foggy was alone with his thoughts again.

The idea of praying wasn’t such a bad one, though what Foggy knew of the kind of stuff he’d need to do was vague at best, and involved the killing of a large farm animal at least, and there was no way in hell he was going to be able to drag a dead boar up the stairs of his apartment. With a sigh, he set to Googling again, muttering under his breath as he went.

“Dear parthenon of immortal assholes-- someone _please_ come tell me what the hell this is all supposed to mean. X-O-X-O, Foggy.” There. If nothing else, he at least said something. Only part of him was hoping for nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI, if you haven't figured it out, Foggy Nelson and Matt/Camulos Murdock are written by two different people and the chapters switch off between us. Matt is written by Marvelous and Foggy by Nerdock.


End file.
